the nature of disease
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: "A month at most, Mr. Weasley. We're very sorry. There's not much else we can do. He's too far gone." A month. At most. And then you will leave me. /Charlie watches Draco die. There is nothing he can do but wait. DracoCharlie, angst galore.


**A/N:** For The Hunger Games Competition, for which I decided CharlieDraco angst was only appropriate.

Thanks so much to Jasmine (aka Being A Wallflower) for betaing!

**Prompts used (five out of the ten provided in the HG comp):** Draco Malfoy as a character, tragedy as a genre, word count of 1,000, the weapon dagger, and grief as an emotion. (There's also a brief mention of the pairing, LuciusNarcissa, though they remain nameless and are ultimately unimportant. But it's nice to have a safety net in case the grief thing falls flat.)

* * *

"A month at most, Mr. Weasley. We're very sorry. There's not much else we can do. He's too far gone."

"N-no. No, that can't be right. He was fine last week. He's _fine_."

(Softening voices, pitying eyes.)

"Draco is a very sick man, Charlie. It's the nature of disease to surprise its victims. I'm sorry."

"_No_."

But there is nothing I can do.

A month. At most.

And then you will leave me.

* * *

It hurts to see you like this, you know.

You're so pale. Paler than pale. Your hands are as white as a ghost's, your veins running along your wrists like bright blue poetry scrawled on your paper-thin skin. Your grip on my hand is far too slack, your fingers weak and frail.

"I was a bad man, Charlie," you tell me. Your head is too heavy for you to hold up these days. It lolls on your pillow. Your eyes fight to stay open. The words fall flat onto your chest; they are as weak as you.

"You were never a bad man, Draco Malfoy," I say, but the words didn't sound as strong as I want them to. "You've always been too hard on yourself."

"I did hor– horrible things." You cough, the sound clanging through your body as if you are a church bell. Loud. Lingering. Inevitable. Every day it is the same.

But, every day, your clanging-bell cough rings just a little louder.

* * *

I try for so long not to cry in front of you.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," you say, when I can no longer hide the tears that form at the pain on your face, the shadow of death beneath your eyes. "I never meant to – to upset you, Charlie. I never meant to – "

"I'm not crying because you've hurt me," I whisper. "I'm crying because I fucking love you. Do you hear me? I love you, and don't you ever doubt that."

Your smile is soft as sunlight, bright as sunbeams through stained glass windows; I want to preach to the congregation in your bones. Want to pray to the gods in your chest, to all the angels carving my name onto your eyelids, to the crucifix of your body.

I just want someone to listen, Draco. Someone to understand.

(My prayers go unanswered.)

* * *

"I l-love you, Char," you say, and it's so honest. So bare and real and fucking _sincere_, no mask of strength or power, no carefully executed nonchalance, nothing but _you._

"I know, Draco. I know."

And I do.

I do.

* * *

"Do you remember...?" you ask. I shake my head, because I know you don't want to listen; you want to speak. You want to tell me what _you_ remember. You want to paint your memories in my mind, coloured with your words, because you know that's the only way your memories will live on. So fitting that everything you want to remember are the things I will never forget.

I spend hours listening to your wavering voice.

* * *

"Do you remember...?" I ask, and the lump in my throat stops me from continuing when I see the panic in your eyes, when you shake your head sadly because _no, no, I don't, not anymore_won't fall fast enough from your lips.

I kiss your knuckles, sharp and white – you're nothing but angles and bones.

"It's okay, love."

You do not respond.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Draco."

Sorry for not knowing how to help. Sorry for not being strong enough, for not understanding , for falling at your feet and begging you not to leave me. For not saying _I love you_ with every breath in me until your heart stops its desperate beating. But I think you'd rather I waste my breaths on _remembering_ than trying to fill up our last moments with proclamations that don't need saying.

"So am I."

* * *

Your parents visit with pity etched into their eyes and distain sitting on the curve of their lips.

They don't stay long.

"I think...they lov-loved...me...more," you gasp, "...when I was...evil..."

"Look at me, Draco," I growl, grabbing your chin with my fingers – but gentler than I would've before, scared of hurting you. I turn your grey eyes up to meet mine. "You have never been evil. I don't care what you did. You were a child, for fuck's sake. A _child_."

"So...was Ron," you say, and the rattle of your breath in between your words is a dagger in my heart. You're getting worse.

"Ron's fucked up, too, you know. You're not the only one who's made mistakes, love."

"The only mistake...y-you ever made was...falling in love with – with...a dying man," you choke, all raspy, breathless chuckles and forced smiles.

"Don't you ever say that again." Your hands are cold, your fingers icy in mine. "The only mistake I've ever made," I say, "was not loving you sooner. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. You are the love of my life."

"No," you say. "I'm not. There's going...t-to be someone else. Someday, far from...now. You're going...to...to love again, Char."

My lips find your cheek, pressed close to the sharpness of your bones. I kiss the tears that fall; there are no words anymore.

"You have to," you say. "For me."

(Your smile will hurt to remember.)

* * *

I sometimes wonder if you know what is coming. If you know _when_.

I never ask.

* * *

Your chest rises and falls clumsily, your breathing uncertain, shaky. Your eyes cannot stay open this time.

I find myself praying again. Praying to you, to everyone, to no one. Because there are no gods worthy of prayers if they will let you die this way.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

I want these words to be the last thing you ever hear.

"I love you."

Your fingers relax their grip on mine. Your chest stutters, stutters, _stills._

"_I love you."_

(I hope you can still hear me.)


End file.
